Bode Miller Let the Genie Out of the Bottle, or Was That the Keg?

KITZBÜHEL, Austria, Jan. 19 - If Bode Miller wanted to forget about the idea of drunken skiing this week, he should have gone anywhere but Kitzbühel, the medieval Tyrolean town that over the next three days will play host to one of the biggest parties in the sporting world.

But of course Miller never leaves the Alpine skiing World Cup, which has come to Kitzbühel for three races, including the Hahnenkamm downhill on Saturday -- the most prestigious and dangerous ski race in the world. Miller's teammate Daron Rahlves is the favorite.

In recent years, as many as 100,000 fans have packed into this town of 8,000 for the three days of racing, which begins Friday, and most of them have disregarded the recent ban on schnapps during the races. Many will not bother to find hotel rooms, but instead will go from the downhill course to the pubs, stay up all night, and return to the mountainside for the slalom Sunday.

This is the backdrop for Miller and the American men's ski team as they try to distance themselves from Miller's quote heard around the world: "If you ever tried to ski when you're wasted, it's not easy."

Miller delivered that line on "60 Minutes" on Jan. 8, and the CBS advance news release promoting the segment turned his words into a miniscandal a few weeks before the opening of the Winter Games in Turin, Italy.

"Why make that such a big story and not make a bigger story of the success we've all had?" said Rahlves, who has won three World Cup downhills this year and is the runaway favorite for the Olympic race.

But as the general public in the United States is discovering an excellent ski team (ranked second behind the seemingly invincible Austrians), it is also discovering that ski racing's deep drinking culture is alive and well, in part a product of a schedule that keeps the racers on the road 250 days a year, mostly in Europe.

And nowhere is the sport's relationship with alcohol on more prominent display than in Kitzbühel on one Saturday night each season when the world's top racers finish the terrifying Streif course -- an unrelenting icy staircase -- and head to the jam-packed Londoner pub, where they get behind the bar and spend the entire night pouring beers and celebrating because their limbs are still attached.

"Franz Klammer always said that if you come down alive from the Streif, then you're entitled to have a party," said Nina Gunnell, whose father, Rik, founded the Londoner in 1976.

"It's always been like that," Rahlves said. "That's how it is. It's part of the sport. Why downplay it?"

The Canadian ski team started the custom, which over 30 years has evolved into an initiation rite for World Cup downhillers. Not until they finish the course are they allowed to take a turn at the taps. Most of the beer they pour (and Gunnell has ordered 140 kegs for this weekend) ends up flying through the steamy air, landing on the racers' fan clubs.

"That's what sometimes people misunderstand is that were not drinking it, were just throwing it on each other," Gunnell said. She maintains that the Londoner experience is a healthy way to unwind after the monthlong buildup to the Streif, which comes at the end of a string of important downhills.

Rahlves and his pals, particularly the North Americans, seem to cherish the Londoner tradition. "We're over here for six months," said Manny Osborne-Paradis of Canada, a Kitzbühel rookie hoping to tend bar Saturday. "You gotta let loose a little bit. It's not like we can go home between each race and see our families."

Said Christin Cooper, the 1984 Olympic silver medalist in the giant slalom: "People love the image of these colorful characters that are kind of wild, so does the F.I.S. and so do sponsors and so does the U.S. Ski Team. What goes along with that is that your whole life has to be dedicated to a hard-charging way of life." Cooper was referring to the international body that governs skiing, the Fédération Internationale de Ski.

But the party at the Londoner has been costly for American skiing. In 1997, the Olympic gold medalist Tommy Moe was sidelined for most of the season after cutting his thumb on broken glass while trying to jump over the bar. In 2004, Rahlves got so sick afterward that he lost his advantage in the downhill standings. Rahlves had the flu, but he admitted that the Londoner experience had made him vulnerable, and made him commit afterward to reducing his in-season drinking.

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That was a tactical decision, not a public-relations move to satisfy the scolds. The coaches and the administrators who oversee the American men's team are the first to admit they keep the skiers on a looser leash than some of the other top teams, like the Austrians. They say that many of their athletes, including Miller, are fiercely independent and would not accept a rigid structure.

"We're trying our hardest to have a good time and manage the workload and focus on the long, long, long blocks of time on the road," Phil McNichol, the coach of the United States men's team, suggested in an interview in November. "It's a balancing act because it doesn't take much to step over the line."

Rahlves resented the way Miller was attacked for talking about drinking. It's important to note that Miller never suggested he drank before a downhill, the race where the skiers reach speeds of more than 90 miles an hour.

"We all downplay it to be a little more professional, but everybody goes out and has fun," said Rahlves, who tastes a shot of hypocrisy in the "60 Minutes" affair. "Everybody knows what Hermann does, and that's way worse than Bode's ever gone." Rahlves was referring to the Austrian star Hermann Maier.

Rahlves might be right about Maier, who, at the peak of his powers, in 1998, was arrested in Aspen, Colo., after capping a long evening by stealing a car, a bicycle and a forklift in quick succession.

But the Austrian team is generally more discreet about its nocturnal habits, in part because it is so competitive and there is not much room for rebellion. "We have to keep our spot on the team," said Fritz Strobl of Austria, the reigning Olympic downhill champion.

It is not unheard of for journalists to walk into a bar past midnight in a town holding a World Cup event and find the Austrian or Swiss ski team hunkering over tall mugs of beer as they sing their country's somber farming songs.

But because the Alpine World Cup takes place in much more intimate settings than American professional sports, a nondisclosure pact seems to have developed between athletes and the skiing news media.

"I suppose you could call it an unspoken code that ski reporters tend not to write about the drinking," Steve Porino, a former World Cup downhiller who now is a commentator for the Outdoor Life Network, said in an e-mail message.

There are exceptions to the nondisclosure agreement. That is where Miller comes in. Long before the "60 Minutes" story, Miller was trying to tip that glass over, frankly and colorfully discussing his nightlife with reporters.

Few used their pens in 2004, when Miller won a World Cup slalom in St. Anton, Austria. He arrived at the postrace news conference to find, sitting beside the microphone, a tall glass of beer from the race sponsor, Gösser.

Miller drank it, but a young woman from the organizing committee quickly brought out a second glass. As soon as he had exhausted his questioners and the second drink, he was directed to the V.I.P. tent, where the Austrian skiing icon Karl Schranz had requested his presence.

Schranz is something like royalty in St. Anton, so Miller had little choice but to oblige, even though he was still wearing the Lycra speed suit that had been drenched with Champagne during his podium celebration. It was hard for anyone watching the proceedings to fault Miller for tipsiness when the sport was throwing so much booze at him, literally.

And it was hard for Miller not to accept the invitation. After all, Schranz had even offered to buy him a beer.